37. Kate
Kate
There was peace in isolation. A sort of therapy I never thought I needed. I was disconnected from the outside world. Having no idea if he was married already or not. Perhaps it was for the best I didn’t know.
The burner in the sugar tin buzzed like a trapped bee. I almost dropped the kettle.
Drew:
Alive?
Needed space. Council’s ears everywhere. Don’t hate me.
I stared at the cracked screen until the letters blurred. Space. Right. The man vanished for six weeks and called that space.
I thumbed back:
Me: Okay… Still breathing. Cabin’s cozy. Miss your ego cluttering the hallway.
Three dots. Then:
Drew: Dirt bike. 4pm. Don’t shoot.
I laughed out loud, the sound startled a jay outside the window.
At 3:57 the growl of an engine coughed up the dirt road.
I stepped onto the porch in sock feet, arms crossed.
Drew killed the bike beside the woodpile, yanked off a dusty helmet, and there he was— flannel shirt, faded jeans, boots caked in red clay.
No bespoke suit, no driver, no smirk; just wind-burned cheeks and hair sticking up like he’d lost a fight with a pine tree.
“Undercover casual,” I said. “Almost fooled me.”
He swung a leg over, kicked the stand down. “Council’s looking for Italian leather and penthouses. They’ll never suspect REI.”
I poured two mugs of coffee strong enough to wake the dead and led him inside. The blueprints covered the table like a paper snowstorm. He stopped short, eyes flicking over the bird’s-eye render.
“Damn, Kate.”
“I’m good. This is what I do for a living,” I teased, shoving a mug into his hand. “Sit.”
He sat. I unrolled the campus master plan, anchoring corners with salt shakers and a pinecone. His gaze tracked every line: the footbridge, the chime path, Michael’s bench.
“Gertie’s safe,” he said before I could ask.
“New office in my territory; fake name, triple encryption. She’s running point on contractors.
My people set a perimeter two miles out: motion sensors, drones, a guy who owes me a kidney.
Permitting’s moving. Pulled strings with the county— told them it’s a ‘cultural revitalization grant.’ They ate it up after they fired the workers who were taking tribal kickbacks… not everyone’s dirty, but a lot were.”
I traced the river on the map. “You didn’t have to.”
“I did.” He sipped, winced at the heat. “You’re not the only one who believes in second verses.”
“Was… wasit Michael sabotaging me?”
“No. Probably Brett seeing red about Claire and my uncle… definitely Councilman Redmond using Krystal’s brother as his puppet.”
Silence settled, comfortable as the stove’s crackle. I nudged the sugar tin toward him; he took a burner, turned it over like it might bite.
“You kept the robe,” he noticed, nodding at the hook by the door.
“Stole it fair and square.”
He smiled; small, real, nothing like the penthouse grin. “Looks better on you.”
We drank coffee and talked blueprints. He suggested rerouting the service road to avoid wetlands. I argued for a boardwalk instead. He sketched a quick elevation for the amphitheater roof— I added solar tiles. When the sun dipped behind the ridge, the cabin glowed gold through the windows.
When he stood to leave. I walked him to the bike.
“Council still sniffing?” I asked.
“Always. But they’re looking in penthouses.” He tapped the helmet against his thigh. “I’ll be back next week. Bring decent coffee.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bring decent company.”
He swung on, kick-started the engine. Before he pulled away he reached out, brushed a pine needle from my sleeve; just that, nothing more.
The taillight disappeared down the trail. I stood in the quiet a long time, coffee cooling in my hand, blueprints rustling in the breeze like they were impatient to break ground.
Friends, I thought.
Turns out we were getting good at it.
The sun had barely crested the ridge when I heard the first chainsaw cough to life down-valley.
Progress sounded like that now: diesel engines, the metallic shriek of rebar, the low rumble of dump trucks chewing up the old access road.
I’d hiked the footbridge at dawn to watch the foundation crew pour concrete for the recital hall; the forms gleamed wet and silver, a promise taking shape.
By noon I was back at the cabin, sleeves rolled, sketching final elevations for the practice-wing skylights. My burner buzzed against the table.
Drew:
Supply run delayed. Trailer never showed. Checking.
I frowned, thumb hovering. The lumber order was two days late already. I typed back a quick keep me posted and tried to focus on light angles.
Three hours later the satellite router spat an email from Gertie: photos attached.
I opened them on the cracked screen and felt the coffee turn to acid in my stomach.
The first image: the construction trailer, side panel freshly tagged in dripping red.
GET OUT BITCH.
Second: the port-a-john, same paint, same scrawl.
WE’RE COMING FOR YOU.
Third: a stack of two-by-fours that should’ve been under the recital hall’s west wall, now scattered across the mud like pickup sticks. Someone had taken a crowbar to the pallets; splinters glittered in the flash.
Nothing stolen that couldn’t be replaced. Nothing burned. Just malice, petty and precise, designed to crawl under the skin.
I sat on the porch steps, blueprints forgotten in my lap. The river kept its steady argument with the rocks, indifferent. A crow landed on the woodpile, cocked its head, and screamed once before flying off.
Drew’s dirt bike snarled up the track just after sunset. He killed the engine, swung off, helmet dangling from one hand. Dust streaked his flannel; his mouth was a thin line.
“Perimeter’s clean,” he said without greeting. “No footprints past the orange ribbon. They came in on the river—kayak, maybe. Dropped the paint, pried open the trailer, ghosted out before the night guard rotated.”
I handed him the phone. He scrolled, jaw ticking.
“Council?” I asked.
“Could be. Could be local kids paid in crypto.” He handed it back. “Either way, message received.”
He followed me inside. I poured whiskey instead of coffee; we drank it neat, standing at the counter.
“Insurance adjuster’s coming tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll swap the lumber out of a different yard, no paper trail. Gertie’s moving the crew to twelve-hour shifts—two armed foremen, floodlights, trail cams facing the water.”
I nodded, throat tight.
“They used fear.” He set his glass down, gentle. “Fear’s loud. Doesn’t mean it’s winning.”
Outside, the construction lights winked on down-valley, harsh white against the dark. I watched them from the window, a constellation trying to be born.
Drew’s hand settled on my shoulder, warm through the flannel. “You still walking the bridge at dawn?”
“Every day.”
“Then I’ll be there at five-thirty. Two rifles, one thermos. They want an audience, we’ll give them one.”
I leaned, just a fraction, into the weight of his palm. The blueprints rustled on the table, impatient. Somewhere past the tree line, spray paint dried on plywood and the river kept moving, carrying the message downstream whether I listened or not.
I lifted my glass. “To second verses.”
He clinked his against mine. “And to the bad bitch who refuses to leave—you.”
We drank. The night pressed close, but the stove crackled steady, and the recital hall’s foundation cured harder with every hour.
They could paint whatever they wanted.
The land was already learning the tune.